TRON: Overload
by Dayanx
Summary: ENCOM's grid has grown over the years since Flynn's disappearance into his own grid, where there are many similarities and differences. Trim is a young system monitor investigating financial data theft, but nothing is as it seems with Ed Dillinger around.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: Rather obviously, The TRON franchise belongs to Disney/Buena Vista Entertainment. I'm merely providing some new characters, organizations, locations, and lore to the franchise. Thanks and enjoy.

_END OF LINE

TRON: OVERLOAD

The young man sighed and tossed yet another empty Mountain Dew can at the trashcan; as completely unconcerned for his lack of accuracy as he was of the lateness of the hour. He was far too wrapped up in his own affairs to focus on his lack of aim.

"C'mon, Eddie, _THINK_!" he said aloud, running his hand through his mop of dark brown hair before adjusting his eyeglasses for the umpteenth time. Without taking his eyes off the cluttered virtual desktop on his computer monitor, he found his pack of gum; annoyedly tearing the mylar wrapper and shoving the cinnamon-flavored piece into his mouth. "What would dad do?"

ENCOM OS12 was _his_ baby, _his_ chance to shine. Sure, in the midst of last week's epic failure he had allayed the fears of ENCOM's executives and ever-finicky investors, but saving face had still cost the company millions of dollars. Dick Mackey, the newly-returned Roy Kleinberg, and some other senior staff dinosaurs seemed to be quietly blaming _him _for losing it to that idiot Flynn's ninja stunt._ Like father, like son_, Edward thought with no small amount of irony. Ed Jr. suspected it was only that sentimental old fart- Alan, the CEO that had kept him from being ejected from the board and into some deep, dark cubicle somewhere. He was better than that. _Far_ better. _Now that the prodigal son is home, they're projecting past problems with dad on me. _

Flynn's yippee father pulled a similar stunt back in the eighties to wrest control of the ENCOM board from his father, Edward Dillinger Senior. Sure, dad had been doing some crazy things with that draconian AI control app he had written, but at least he didn't try to ruin the bottom line. Quite the contrary. In fact, after being cashiered by ENCOM in 1983, Dillinger Sr. had gone on to found Dillinger Systems Incorporated, now a Fortune 500 defense contractor that worked primarily with communications and military software. Dear ol' dad had pulled a string or two to get Ed Jr. on as senior programmer at ENCOM a few years ago rather than take him on at his own company. _Paying one's dues,_ was his father's only explanation.

_Hmmm_, he thought, bringing up a secure, customized web browser to his father's private FTP server at DSI. Edward looked through his father's work, reading for quite a while. "SARK-ES-1117821", he said aloud. Very nice work as a network controller until it was deleted by one of that fossil Bradley's security programs. "TROFF-EX-1118092", now _this_ was interesting. This simple sleaze program had helped to erase the MCP's (and his father's) complicity in stealing all those business and military secrets all that time ago.

Edward Jr thought for a moment that this app seemed familiar somehow. He made a search on some old hacking BBS's he had mirrored years ago and found it as a downloadable. So someone had copied and heavily modified his father's ghost program. Possibilities, possibilities.

The young man cracked his knuckles and started scripting, wincing as he saw yet _another _notice on Sam Flynn's induction into the board pop up on his outlook. "Sometimes the best defense is a good offense." he smiled, spitting out his gum; which tumbled straight into the trash can.

. . . . . . . .

Troff slid off his lightcycle; pushing the handlebars back together to retract the bike into its rod configuration in a glitter of soft light that reflected harshly off his light-gilded shades. He brushed his shock of long, dark hair from his face as he hurried through the turnstiles, hoping to catch the opening of the first round of the disk wars tournament. The arena bleachers were packed, so he slowed behind a line of others eagerly seeking to watch.

Someone cleared their throat behind Troff and tapped him on the shoulder. He was slightly shocked to see a program wearing a blue-studded lightsuit, showing his status as an internet subroutine.

"Greetings, program." The courier said. "Are you TROFF-EX-1118092?"

Troff's eyebrows knitted together and he suppressed a frown, "That was _many _upgrades ago."

The courier program seemed undaunted, "I have a user update for you."

The blank expression and unnecessarily good-natured voice irked Troff to no end. "I've had several users. Whic-" he managed to say as the courier pulled out his identity disk; a broad blue beam shining on the irritated program. The features of the program that faced the courier seemed to melt, and now looked completely different from the one the courier had just updated. Leaner, stronger, more capable, and yet utterly contemptuous, with icy eyes, aquiline nose and a harsh, tight slash of a mouth.

The courier seemed not to care in the least, "Thank you, program, and have a nice-"

The web courier flew into silvery pieces as the reborn program smashed through his head with his own identity disk. "Sarkoff. Sarkoff 1.0, if you please."

The program took stock of his surroundings. He was all alone in the hallways as everyone else had taken their seats in the arena. A dull roar showed that the excited ENCOM City fans were about to see their spectacle. Sarkoff grimaced, "I have much to do."

. . . . . . . . .

Alan Bradley put the cellphone to his ear and waited, idly tapping a pen on his desk. The desk, considered state of the art when it was installed in 1982, had been fitted with a prototype touch-based interactive panel and upward-facing monitor, twenty years before the hardware became commonplace on ATMs and smart phones. The computer inside had been replaced several times, and no longer ran SolarOS, but still had access to the ancient EN12-82 server.

Today the desk was covered with hardcopies and financial statements, and a forgotten mug of tepid coffee. A tense-looking, but attractive dark-skinned lady sat across from Alan, waiting for the CEO to finish his call.

"Hey honey. How did yoga go? Mmhmm. That's great. Listen. I have Claire here, and she's been finding some bad discrepancies with this weeks' statements. Yeah, I know that financial is not your department, but I thought maybe someone you knew had mentioned..."

Alan's eyes darted to those of the black woman, who shrugged. "It looks... kind of suspicious, yes. Well if this isn't a bug, then someone has both intimate knowledge of our company system and how not to leave any tracks... Flynn? _Flynn? _Lori are you out of your mind? We practically helped raise him. I'd sooner believe Kevin snuck back and did it than believe Sam would pull a stunt like this." Bradly brushed some papers from the desk; the dark, mirror-like finish reflecting Alan's ever-whitening hair.

Alan finished his call and sighed, looking back at his CFO, "She was kidding, Lori loves that boy."

Claire folded one shapely leg over the other as her delicately plucked eyebrows knitted together, "Well you have to admit, he _can_ be sneaky. Security is still looking green around the gills whenever Sam shows up." A slow, predatory smile spread across her face, "At least he looks good in a suit." her English accent faded into a slight purr as Alan rolled his eyes.

Alan frowned, "I'm not about to equate childish pranks to million-dollar embezzling. I know him _way_ better than that."

"As head of finance, I can't make that assumption. Are you certain that this couldn't be an outside actor?" Clair removed her cellphone from a pocket and pressed a button to silence it.

"We'll find out. I'm having Ed put together something to help find this leak, and plug it.


	2. Chapter 2

The DoD server was a subgrid; a smaller and more secure server from the primary one. Despite this and its signature green-tinted highlights in the structure of every pathway, building, and street, it was no different than any other part of the grid except it had no direct access to the internet. Any Basic or data kernel in or out of ENCOM's Department of Defense server did so under the watchful eye of Samba and his system monitors by either the solar sailer dock or the single I/O tower that linked the subgrid to the rest via a Local Area Network. The system worked rather like a circuit of real world cities linked by road and rail. And continuing that analogy, the DoD server was akin to a high-security military reservation like the Pentagon.

The DoD security tower was a massive structure; an ebony monolith trimmed in a sparkling green light like radioactive jade. The one and only entrance was underground and protected by multiple security gates; each manned by a pair of green-trimmed guards.

The lightcycle slowed as it approached the first of the gates; the rider's purple circuitry light mixing in harsh conflict with the green trim upon the black helmet of the guard that approached. The guard said nothing, and the rider did not move as her identity disc was removed and scanned. The purple rider's helmet dropped a bit; the only indication of her annoyance as the guard replaced her disc and nodded. "Continue." His lips had barely uttered before the rider spun her wheels loudly on the way to the next; nearly identical checkpoint.

The rider made it through the gauntlet of security measures and came upon a portal consisting of a double pair of sliding opaque glass doors. The rider retracted her helmet; a river of honey-blonde cascading over one shoulder, held by a gleaming purple ring a topknot. Her eyes were large and also tinted purple, framed by long lashes and an aristocratic brow. Her features were delicate, pale, and smooth as if sculpted from ivory.

A tall, broad-shouldered program exited the doors and approached as she stepped off and retracted the lightbike into its baton. The man looked in all ways like the rider's opposite: with a hard-chiseled, dark-skinned face, bald pate, a muscular physique, and a highly polished ebony plate that covered part of his face reflecting the green light from his circuitry.

"Trim, You realize you're 50 microcycles late, correct?" his deep basso voice rumbled in mild annoyance as the female rider approached.

Her graceful, feline movements did nothing to hide the twisted grin on the young program's face, "Really Samba. If you're going to send your youngest system monitor to the outlands to hunt a band of smugglers, at least give me a lightjet if you expect me to be home on time."

The big program's features twisted in exaggerated aggravation, the skin around his dark faceplate wrinkling. "Something's come up. We have larger gridbugs to fry than a few simple mod smugglers."

"Unauthorized user?" Trim asked hopefully and cocked her head to one side; her grin somehow even larger as she shifted from foot to foot in excitement.

"That's what we're going to find out." Samba's stern face softened, Trim's infectious enthusiasm reminded him of cycles long past. "I need you to get over to the I/O tower in the old sector. The discrepancies were reported as coming from there. Financial stuff."

Trim winced a little at the thought of having to visit a tiny, cramped place like EN12-82. Originally the entire ENCOM grid was confined to this miniscule server. Once the company's mainframe powerhouse, now even the sub colony grids of ENCOM's legion of desktop computers were larger. "Oh c'mon, Samba. Tell me you're not _that _upset with me. Oldsector is a data dump."

"Data being the point. When the main grid was brought online, oldsector was relegated as storage. Archives Trim. You aren't afraid of a few crusty parsing clerks are you?" Samba's predatory grin made the young system monitor sigh dejectedly.

" Alright, but why us? Why doesn't Tron send Cerberus, or Ada to..." Trim managed to say before Samba cut her off, "Because he asked _us_, that's why." His bass voice thundered off the walls of the dark garage.

He saw Trim flinch and lowered his voice a bit to show he wasn't quite as stern as he seemed. "Look, Tron knows that DoD is the most secure subgrid in the system. So secure that not much happens here. We don't need a team of monitors with all enthusiasm and no experience." The big Basic patted Trim's shoulder.

Trim cocked her head with a slight smile as she strained her neck to look up at Samba flashing him a wink, "Alright. But you're helping me dust myself off afterward. And what trouble will you be off to confront?" She knew that Samba tended to save the more dangerous assignments for himself. She respected him for it, but she knew she could handle herself in any conceivable situation.

Samba rumbled in laughter at his prodigy's brazenness. "To question the usual suspects."

. . . . . . . .

The ancient EN12-82 I/O tower functioned as a direct communication portal to the outside world through which programs and users could send and receive information. Though ancient and compact by modern standards, The Old Sector and its tower still gleamed and shone with wide ribbons of light trimming every building and structure. The sky overhead flashed with occasional lightning and swirled with a riot of shadowy mist.

Trim's lightcycle sped through the access circuit towards the tower; taken aback by the older sector's quaint beauty and delicate lonesomeness. Hardly anyone was on the streets, and the young monitor rapidly blazed a purple light trail through the little city. Mainly there was only caretaker programs, analysts, and clerks to populate the ancient subgrid. She arrived at the base of the tower and retracted her bike. There was a spacious reception atrium just inside the main entrance, But only a single, bored-looking guard sat at the reception desk.

She took the elevator to the top floor, which was dominated by a single, cone-shaped platform easing into a cylindrical structure set into the floor and ceiling. The face of an old man could be seen near the base; his body merged with the tower console. The tower guardian said nothing as Trim quietly padded over to him. He was snoring too loudly to hear her until she cleared her throat.

The old tower guardian awoke with a start, "Ah, business?" He composed himself, waking up from a long idle process. "System monitor? My I haven't seen one of your kind in quite some time. In-o at your service... ahh..."

gTrim. I'm hear to ask you a few questions about some suspicious transactions from this sector." Her voice was soft and young, but all business.

The ancient guardian closed his eyes for a moment in thought, then wiped an exposed hand across an arcane-looking console. "Uh huh. Interesting. There _has _been an increase in activitythough it seems that the only non-routine activity I've seen here recently is an upload to a user named Flynn. Now THAT name rings a bell or two."

The name was familiar with Trim as well, for Many of the older programs like Yori and Tron told stories from the old days of the grid. Flynn had actually come to the grid personally to help save it from the all-powerful master control that had dominated with an iron fist.

"But that was thousands of cycles ago. Many of the younger basics don't even believe us old-timers anymore. Even legends like Tron. But I noticed its a different I.D. Number, but the same designation. Flynn." In-o seemed to relish the conversation and the trip down memory lane. Even the tower base in which the tower guardian sat seemed to gleam with renewed vigor.

"What did the User download?" Trim asked, running a hand through the hair not kept in her topknot.

"Ah. Some old data. Technical specifications and diagrams from the defunct ENCOM experimental laser program." In-o stroked his goatee.

Trim chewed her bottom lip, her pretty face etched with lines across her brow. "Nothing financial? It was specifically a non-authorized set of changes in the financial archives that I'm investigating."

In-o took another moment or two to work his console, finally shaking his head. "My dear, I have checked every other transaction, and everything looks in order. If there is a problem, then my suggestion is to ask the Oracle. He maintains the archives." He pointed as a map etched itself into existence made of multiple levels and colors. The tower guardian marked the position of the archives.

In-o's console beeped, "This is Network Controller Samba to I/O EN12-82. Is my monitor there?" Trim's superior's basso voice boomed from the console. Without waiting for a reply, ordered, "See she gets to the DoD Arena pronto. We may have a problem.

. . . . . . . .

The solar sailer trip had been thankfully uneventful, for which Troff was thankful. He had been designed to avoid attention if at all possible. He had been modified and employed by many users from all over the internet. Every single one of them using his skills in stealth and subterfuge to get one over on their competitor or mark.

Troff looked around at his six companions. They were all daemons; older, usually userless basics employed as contract labor in different functions. Some, as in this group, all specialized in subversive tactics, irregular combat, and Troff was almost sure the leader had been a military electronic warfare program. That one, a gaunt-looking figure with sallow skin and wearing a white-lined trench coat, had a white lightning circuit mod installed in either temple above his ears where his short-cropped hair was shaven clean. Troff got the chills just looking at him.

The seven daemons spoke not a word as they neared their destination. The arena was massive; a dark and green-trimmed monolith in which games were fought, won, and lost for the amusement of the masses (and the gain of a few). The arena had exceptional security, but nothing compared to that at the solar station. And they all had practically breezed through it.

"I.D. Please." The guard asked as they stepped up to the main series of turnstiles. "The games don't begin for a while yet. What is your purpose here?"

Troff handed over his identity disc to the guard, who proceeded to scan it. An almost imperceptible jolt shocked the guard as he passed the disc back.

"We are an engineering crew. We were tapped to fix the arena power systems before the games begin. They were reported to be a bit unstable." Troff lowered his white-lined shades, a luminescent green as bright as the guard's circuitry shone from the daemon's irises.

"Go right ahead. Hope this won't effect the race later." The guard graciously waved the silent crew inside to the second checkpoint; which was similarly bypassed.

. . . . . . . .

Trim bounded up the steps to the rear gate of the arena; finding Samba pointing a pair of system monitors in the directions he wanted them to go.

"What happened?" she cocked her head to one side to flick an errant lock of her honey-blonde hair from her face.

The big system controller regarded the girl thoughtfully, a small grin making the skin of his cheek crinkle against his faceplate, "Glad you could join us. Did you have a chance to find anything out from In-o?"

"Nothing in regard to the financial access. Which you could have found out if you had-"

Samba interrupted his protege," I wanted eyes I could trust down there. I wanted him to know this wasn't a simple social call."

"And he probably hasn't seen a young girl in a while, huh? Trim's mouth curled into an almost cat-like smile.

"That too." The big man chuckled.

"So what happened here in the arena can't find good seats?"

"I had a chat with our old friend Simon here. He told me that a group of rather dour-looking fellows came in on the last sailer from the dataport. Said they waltzed through security faster than he did to report to work every day. Said they had no record on the sailer manifest either." Samba fingered the lightcycle rod in his thigh sheath unconsciously.

"I also asked him to meet me here at the arena after I followed them here." Said Simon, or _Simulation Online _as he approached the two from an alcove. He was a systems engineer that worked at the main solar port under Yori. Tall and whipcord thin, Simon was dark-skinned like Samba, but there the similarities ended.

"Do you believe him?" Trim's crystal eyes narrowed, not bothering to acknowledge the newcomer; remembering that Simon was many things, but never to be trusted.

The big basic shrugged, "You know Simon. Wants to corner the black market for himself. He has as much to lose from interlopers as the rest of us. Perhaps more."

"A _damn _sight more, big guy. If I were a betting man, which I'm _not_, mind you, If I wanted to scan a _sure_ winner, I might try to reprogram the racer's lightcycles. Now if you excuse me, I have work to do back at the solarport." The thin man spun on his heels, his blue circuitry flashed as he quickly made his way back through the turnstiles.

"He always did have a nose for trouble." Samba watched the scoundrel leave.

Trim frowned; her full lips a harsh line across her smooth skin. Something didn't add up.

. . . . . . . .

"What? That's NOT in the agreement!" Troff hissed at Carn, the leader of the daemon team. When they were all hired by an unknown party to sabotage the DoD games, Troff had been told they would be rigging several lightcycle batons to slow down; affecting the race in the employer's favor.

"C'mon, kid. Do you really think it would take seven us to do a gig like that?" Carn smiled cruelly, unfolding his arms and placing them on his hips.

Troff just barely realized that some imperceptible signal from the daemon leader had been sent to his team; which were now trying to surround him within the murky armory beneath the Arena. The fact they hadn't told him their true mission made him an expendable patsy.

Troff threw his left hand out in front of him while backpedaling towards one of the armory's deep alcoves; the limb reconfiguring itself in a silvery riot of light and data into the dark, gunmetal gray of a multi-barreled weapon. The highly illegal modification sang its song; bright flashes of energy derezzing one of the daemon team with several hits; the missed shots dislodging a storm of rapidly derezzing support wall shards and fragments.

The outnumbered program didn't have the energy for a stand up fight, and Troff ducked behind the corner as lightgun projectiles impacted his cover while he recharged his big tracegun. Essentially a rotary version of the real world's shotgun, the tracegun was illegal on almost every grid, and absolutely devastating at close range.

Carn stuck his head out from behind a pillar and jerked his thumb towards a member of his team behind similar cover making a hand gesture. He made a similar motion to another, then waved the other three to resume firing with him.

Troff looked around him; guessing what he'd do in Carn's place. He ran along the shadowy wall of the alcove; the reduced lighting turning him into a murky specter as he reached the other end of the small archway.

He was expecting the first daemon to flank him, but not both; and he dove against the wall to avoid the identity disc the first daemon hurled at him. Troff grunted as he hit the unforgiving wall hard; blasting the legs and torso out from the first basic that had been a moment from hurling his own disc into the now prone sneak program. The daemon exploded into shards of crystalline data as he struck the ground. Low on energy, he retracted the tracegun as he rolled on his hips to the balls of his feet; the first flanker catching his returning disc.

"Everyone freeze!" a new voice from across the armory boomed in deep basso; two sets of footsteps announcing the arrival of two system monitors.

Troff turned his head towards the newcomers, then a flash of light and he instinctively ducked. His body dissolved into a shower of crystalline sparks as the lightgun blasts impacted the wall behind him.

Samba was armed with his identity disc and a light sword; hurling the former in a wide swath as the remaining daemons bounded into the dark alcove; forcing them to duck for cover. A few shots went wide, and the big system controller dove into a somersault around the flank of one of the armed intruders.'

The daemon's brows wrinkled in confusion as Samba crouched low with his palm held high; the intruder exploding in a cloud of silvery sparks as the controller's homing disc launched through the front of the daemon's chest on its journey back to the big program's waiting hand.

Trim lept out from behind one pillar onto Carn's back; her slender form easily concealed in the heavy shadows except for the cloud of honey blonde hair behind her. Claws made of purple light sprang from the tips of her fingers, with which she slashed the special warfare program across the face.

Carn yowled in pain, his right eye sliced through as parts of his cheek and forehead also derezzed from the slender blades. He bent and twisted his back; throwing his arms behind him to catch the young monitor by the throat. He hyper-extended her arm with his other hand; hearing bone and tendon creak in protest before hurling her against the edge of the alcove wall. She impacted her back, knocked unconscious; her identity disc knocked from its socket on her back.

Samba blocked a slash from one lightsword with his identity disc, decapitating the intruding daemon with his green-tinted blade. He followed through with the swing, releasing the blade from his grip, skewering another daemon through the chest that had been in mid-throw of his identity disc. A rain of crystalline data tinkled around the big controller.

The last of Carn's daemons snarled and hurled his own disc, skipping it off the ground in front of Samba. The big man raced forward; judging the angle of reflection as Tron had taught him cycles ago. He pushed his identity disc in front of him as he skidded to a halt; the daemon's disc smashing against it and reflected back at the shocked program. The daemon's head and body fell in separate directions as they derezzed into a torrent of glittering dust..

"Damn you!" Carn bashed Samba hard; with a strength that seemed beyond his gaunt form. The big controller flew backwards; his identity disc and socket smashing through one of the armory's exposed power relays. The whole alcove exploded into a frenzy of sparks; the critically wounded Samba twitched as he struck the ground.

Far beyond his adherence to his mission, the special warfare program cackled maniacally as he drew his identity disc; approaching Trim as she lay moaning on the ground in front of him.

The young system monitor was aware but stunned, and she tried desperately to regain her feet. The wildly grinning Carn seemed not to care about the three silvery slashes that cut into his face, intent on killing her before fulfilling his mission.

"Forget about someone, bithead?"

Incredulously, Carn turned wide-eyed towards the familiar voice in time to see the identity disc enter his face between the eyes.

Troff caught his disc while jogging over to help Trim off the floor; checking her then kneeling by a motionless Samba.

"But you... you derezzed. Who are you?" Trim asked woozily as she dropped to both knees and helped the sneak program carefully turn Samba onto his side.

"I think you took a harder hit than I thought, sweetie. I'm still online." Troff touched the socket that held Samba's identity disc. "He's in big trouble. He needs a system engineer right now."

Trim was about open her mouth when the tone of an elevator and heavy patter of feet announced the arrival of more system monitors lead by a tall woman and a broad shouldered, dark skinned man. Last to arrive was a dour-looking Tron; who surveyed the glittery carnage around him before crouching by the downed system controller.

"Samba... Bartik, you and Kern get Samba upstairs to the arena's infirmary right now. It's fully staffed for the game today." His eyes locked onto Troff and did not leave.

"Cerberus, escort this... _program _to the detention block right now."

The athletic female system controller was incredibly built; with hard muscles that did not remove a thing from her graceful curves. Her long, lustrous black hair caught the red light of her circuitry; swishing with her hips as she moved to grab the sneak program by the arm without so much as a word.

Troff raised his hands, "Wait. There are overload charges set on the main power bridge under the race track. I removed one but there may be more."

Tron struck the sneak program across the face in a fit of anger, furious at the mercenary, "Oh no you don't. You won't be weaseling your way out this time, Troff." Tron, jerked his head at the remaining monitors, "Check out his story."

"Tron. Wait. He _saved_ Samba and I. He derezzed some of them, and made sure we were functional." Trin stepped between Troff and Cerberus, who merely crossed her arms and frowned at the young program through slitted eyes. She shot a look as the elevator carrying Bartik, Kern, and the critically injured Samba lifted up towards the ground level.

The system administrator stroked his chin in thought, "We saw him arrive with the rest of those mercs."

"I was hired to sneak them in. I was told they would be rigging a couple of the races. Not trying to blow up half the grid." Troff frowned at his own naivety. He _was_ a daemon, a merc. But he had a conscience.

Tron's response was cut off as the trio of system monitors ran back from the other end of the arena sub basement where the power bridge chamber was located carrying a pair of small cubes. "Overloaders. With a vibration fuse." One of the monitors whistled at the implications.

Tron's eye twitched, "One pass of the cycles overhead would have detonated the bridge. Derezzed the arena and half the sector. All those programs!" He shouted at Troff, who merely looked away.

Trim looked down and thought of Samba before turning to the Grid administrator. "I believe him, sir. I saw him fight when he realized he had been fooled. He was just a patsy."

Tron groaned, The young monitor's eyes as large and pretty as Yori's. "Alright. Troff, you're off the hook for now. But don't leave the sector. Consider yourself quarantined.

"Cerberus, I'm assigning you and your IC unit to the DoD sector while Samba is down. You are granted full access to protect the server, and its monitors-" He shot a look at Trim, "Are under your command."

Tron nodded and left to head back to the surface; the first dull roar of the lightcycle race thundering above.

Troff, wanting to be under Cerberus' steely gaze no longer, followed suit. The tall, amazon-like system controller looked down at Trim; who fidgeted nervously.

"Well? Follow him." her voice boomed almost like Samba's despite lacking his rich basso tone. Trim squeaked and bounded after the sneak program, leaving the Intrusion Countermeasure commander alone.


End file.
